


Backup

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, daredevil - Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, foggy needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6365644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy decides that he needs a code for Matt to send him so he knows Matt's okay at the end of a night. Also, he and Matt deserve a day off sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backup

“You . . . agree?” Foggy asks, because he would’ve bet three rounds at Josie’s that Matt would find his request ridiculous (it’s not), mother-henish (it definitely is), and illogical (how does logic even fit into the fucking scenario that has become Matt’s life?).

“Sure,” Matt replies, and reaches for the last doughnut. Foggy’s too surprised by his answer to stop him, even though it’s raspberry cream. “I’ll text it to you when leave and when I get in from my . . . escapades each night.

“Your Daredevil escapades. I don’t need to hear about any others. Okay, good. What should the message be?” This conversation keeps getting more and more surreal, but he’s not going to let it die because of that.

Matt looks up after licking raspberry sauce off of fingers in an intentionally obscene way. “Why can’t it just be ‘I’m okay. See you at the office’?”

Sometimes Matt has no imagination.

Foggy sighs. “I thought maybe a code. I mean, in case someone wonders why I’m getting texts from you at four in the morning every other night.” He pauses, distracted by Matt’s second bite of the doughnut.

“Who’s going to wonder that, exactly?” Matt retorts.

“I occasionally have a partner in my bed who’s not you, Mr. Avocado. They might see the texts.” It’s not really true, but it might be true eventually. He and Matt have an open relationship. Yes, they sleep together (oh god, Foggy loves those nights), but they’re not exclusive. They’re BFFs with benefits at the moment.

 It’s all they can manage between two guys who might as well be actual avocados when it comes to emotions.

Matt shrugs. “Fine. What about ‘green’? It’s easy enough.”

“I think it shouldn’t be easy. You could be faking it but actually have a concussion or a bullet wound to the collar bone. It should be harder to get out so I know you’re actually okay.”

See, Foggy, as it turns out, is a worrier. He knows this, has always known it, but has never had it truly put to the test until he found out about Matt’s moonlighting activities getting his ass kicked/kicking ass. He just wants to be able to wake up in the morning, look at his phone, and stop panicking about whether he’s going to find Matt dead on a rooftop somewhere. He’d spent too many mornings waiting for Matt to show up ten minutes late to work and imagining every possible worst-case-scenario.

“Illigitimi non carborundum?” he suggests, and Matt rolls his eyes in that adorable way that makes Foggy just want to leap over his desk and kiss him. He holds back – Karen’s right outside and doesn’t really know any of Matt and Foggy’s secrets yet.

“Cliché much, Foggy?” Matt says, and finishes the rest of the doughnut in one bite, thank god. It was really distracting.

“You’ll have to think about spelling it – you’re not allowed to program it into your phone. I’ll be checking.”

“You can’t get into my phone,” Matt protests, but Foggy just tilts his head and raises an eyebrow until Matt sighs. “Okay. Fine.”

The code is agreed upon and set. Foggy counts it as a win.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>><><><> 

He didn’t think it would alert him so soon.

It’s the next day when there’s no second message on his phone. He tumbles out of bed and throws his suit on from yesterday. “Two messages. I’m supposed to get two messages, Matty, _two_ ,” he mumbles as he grabs his keys and wallet and barges out the front door.

When he gets to the street, he stops. Where does he go? Matt’s not answering his phone, it’s seven in the morning, and it’s not like there’s a tracker in Matt’s suit.

Maybe there should be a tracker in Matt’s suit.

Foggy shakes his head, and gets himself over to Matt’s apartment as soon as he can, but it’s empty.

There should definitely be a tracker in Matt’s suit.

Foggy swallows the sliver of fear, blows out a hard breath, and tries the next easiest place. He climbs the stairwell of Matt’s building slower than he’d like, but hey. He’s more of a raspberry cream doughnut kind of guy than a running stairwells kind of guy. He grits his teeth as he opens the door to the rooftop, and crosses his fingers on one hand.

The sun is bright and blinding against the hard brick of the short rooftop wall, and Foggy has to blink to adjust, but as soon as he does, he sees Matt’s crumpled form in the far corner. The red of his suit bleeds onto the tiny gravel under Foggy’s feet, except it’s not just the color from the suit. Foggy sees actual blood pooling around Matt’s side, and his eyes track immediately to Matt’s chest. Its rise and fall brings Foggy’s heart down a notch, and he kneels at Matt’s side to assess the damage.

“Matt,” he calls, reaching over to take the mask off. This goddamned mask – Foggy dreams about it sometimes, but in his dreams the eyes behind it are either lifeless or red with fire, hunting Foggy, hunting Karen, hunting the good people of Hell’s Kitchen instead of the bad.

Matt doesn’t respond, but after Foggy gets the mask off and moves to trace the pool of blood back to its source, he jerks awake, gasping.

Foggy leans close and brushes sweaty hair out of Matt’s face. “I’ve got you, Matty. You’re safe. You’re on the rooftop and we just need to get you inside, okay? We’ll get you inside and patched up and then I can yell at you again, okay?”

Matt shifts in pain and mumbles, “Can we skip the yelling?” and something inside Foggy’s chest loosens, his breath comes easier when he hears the exhausted snark in Matt’s voice.

Foggy looks down at Matt’s side and finds the gash that’s bleeding sluggishly. He runs his fingers through Matt’s hair – something he loves to do when they’re in bed together, the soft, wisps against his fingers are a serious turn-on for him – and finds a bump on the back of his head. He hopes it’s the cause of Matt’s current position rather than the gash on his side. Foggy’s learned to stitch a cut over the last few months, that’s for sure, but they haven’t resorted to keeping bags of Matt’s blood in the refrigerator yet.

Matt’s awake enough now for Foggy to pull him roughly to his feet and drape his arm across his shoulders, and Matt leans his head into Foggy’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his breath is hot against Foggy’s skin.

“Did you help someone?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s okay. I hate it, but it’s okay.”

They make their way slowly down the stairs to Matt’s apartment, and Foggy lays Matt carefully down on the bed. He divests him of the suit as carefully as he can, pulling the tight fabric off his feet and running his eyes over Matt’s body. He’s learned to catalogue wounds quickly, and at least today there are only a few to worry about. The blood seeping into the sheets from the gash on his side is the most prominent.

Foggy goes to the bathroom and snags the first aid kit and suture kit that Claire stocked for them a month ago. She stops by Matt’s apartment every few months with a box of supplies, a coffee for Foggy and juice for Matt. Foggy grips those visits like a vice, as he plies her for medical advice and sympathy. She’s usually good for about ten minutes worth, and Foggy takes what he can get and gives her a giant bear hug in return.

He shoots a text to Karen before he washes his hands – he and Matt are having a business breakfast before they come in today – and carries the supplies to Matt’s bedside. Matt’s lying there with his eyes tightly shut, his breathing ragged from pain, and Foggy takes a deep breath and begins. He pays attention and works carefully – cleaning the wound, sterilizing it, tearing the needle carefully from the package, but he doesn’t think about what he’s doing. Instead, he focuses on Matt – every breath, every wince – and distracts him as best he can.

He talks about college, the parties they went to and the classes they skipped, the crazy shit they saw at their internship, internet memes, dogs, anything. He just talks and stitches, and cleans, and presses ibuprofen into Matt’s hands along with a pain pill Claire managed to get a friend to prescribe for Matt, and brushes his hand down Matt’s bruised cheek until Matt’s breathing evens out and the tension in his face eases.

Matt’s voice is Foggy’s kryptonite; the rough, deep New York accent and the gentleness of his words is the sexiest thing in the universe as far as Foggy is concerned. But he loves watching Matt’s face, especially when he’s not wearing his trademark sunglasses. Even though Matt’s eyes are forever unfocused, they still manage to light up with laughter, and Matt’s smile is what Foggy wants to carry with him to his own grave one day.

After stitching up the gash, Foggy cleans Matt’s face up, wipes it with a wet washcloth and chuckles as Matt wakes up and groans in contentment with the washcloth running over his mouth. “Feel good?” he asks.

Matt opens his eyes and blinks. “Yeah, thanks.”

Foggy just shrugs and keeps up his ministrations. After a few minutes, he figures he’s done all he can for now. “Matt,” he says.

Matt looks at him and blinks heavily. “I’m really tired, Foggy,” he whispers.

Foggy doesn’t have an answer. It seems like if Matt wants to keep this up then he’s always going to be tired, no matter how many hours he sleeps. “I know. Just sleep for a bit. I’ll check in with Karen and see if we can both take the day.”

The smile that plays across Matt’s face makes everything worth it, and when he adds, “Maybe I’ll feel better later if you stay with me” in a voice that drips with a want that Foggy still finds unbelievable sometimes, Foggy decides that he doesn’t care what they miss at work.

Hell’s Kitchen can give Nelson and Murdock a few peaceful hours in a comfortable bed. He calls Karen, tells her that they’re both feeling crappy today, and that they’ll see her tomorrow morning.

He cleans up the medical supplies, makes himself an actual breakfast from the eggs and cheese in Matt’s fridge, and then pulls on a pair of pajamas he keeps in Matt’s dresser. As he slips into bed behind Matt, his mind wanders back to the code on the phone that was missing this morning, and he realizes he chose it for himself, not for Matt.

Matt never lets the bastards get him down. It’s moments like this, with the warmth of Matt’s body pressing into his space, that remind Foggy that _he_ can’t let the bastards get him down, either.

 


End file.
